The New York Series
by niennah
Summary: Warren and Andrew leave Sunnydale to start a new life... but will Warren make it? WarrenAndrew, part 5 added FINAL PART
1. The Neutral Zone

Title: The Neutral Zone  
Author: Anna  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Warren/Andrew  
Disclaimer: Not mine la la la.  
Feedback: Please! Constructive is cool, I never know if I've got the tone quite right.  
Summary: Warren and Andrew leave Sunnydale.  
Notes: Warren same but different. New. Not shiny, but new. Hope you like. AU in the middle of Seeing Red - after they steal the orbs, but before the heist.  
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Warren stood at the counter in the Circle K. He didn't know where they were. The lights buzzed. The guy's hands moved too fast and handed him his change before he was ready. It took an age to reach out and take it. Everything was too white. Too bright and too fast and too loud.  
  
He turned and pushed open the door. He had to get back to the car. He felt a headache coming. At least the nosebleeds had stopped, for now.  
  
Andrew was driving. He had learned when they took the car, when Warren, dazed, showed him how to hotwire it and then, in a shaky voice, gave him basic instructions on how to make it go. Put it in drive. Press the accelerator. When you want to stop, press the brake.  
  
Andrew had learned slowly, but Warren hardly noticed. All night and the sun rose over somewhere not Sunnydale. That was all that mattered.  
  
But where were they now? He heard crickets in the dark, and the neon sign buzzing and clicking overhead. The light flickered and his eyes shut in self defence. He opened the car and sat inside, every movement dulled and fragile. Andrew wasn't there. He must be still in the Circle K. Warren couldn't see to check. He unwrapped his sandwich. It smelled of yesterday and too long on she shelf. He didn't care.  
  
Andrew had found him on the floor after Jonathan had taken the van and gone to the slayer. He couldn't remember falling, and he couldn't remember his nose bleeding, but his face had been covered in drying blood and his head was pounding so badly he wished someone would cut it off. It seemed unreal to be in so much pain and still to be alive. The headaches had been getting worse, but the orbs, he had said to himself, one fun night with the orbs, and then he'd get out of there. He'd take the equipment, lose the redshirts and then everything would be okay.  
  
Andrew stood in the angular pool of light by the door to the Circle K. His hair was a mess. He looked around, anxious, then saw Warren in the car and sighed. Warren wondered if he should try a smile, but Andrew was already walking quickly with his short, effeminate steps before he could decide. Warren opened his coke instead.  
  
It wasn't planning the heist that had given him the headaches. It wasn't any of that stuff, those games he was playing with Andrew and Jonathan. Slayer baiting. That was just for fun.  
  
The real project was the neural net he had built in a corner of the lair. It looked like a junkyard for old computers. It clicked and turned over and the ticker on the TV screen only stopped when the Dow Jones did.  
  
The numbers brought on the headaches, or maybe the headaches concentrated the numbers, he wasn't sure. All night he would watch a tape of the day's numbers and go over the computer's predictions, over and over. There was a pattern in the ticker, he knew there was, there had to be, some kind of picture in the apparent chaos, and he was going to find it. And when he found it, he'd use it, and he'd go away somewhere nice, all by himself. Maybe St. Tropez. It always sounded pleasant. His nose would stop bleeding in St. Tropez.  
  
Andrew got into the car, slurping something far too orange through a straw.  
  
"You okay?" he asked. He always asked that. Warren didn't mind.  
  
"Yeah," he replied, after a pause. He drank some coke, slowly and shaking. "Where are we?"  
  
Andrew looked around. The Circle K seemed to be the only light for miles.  
  
"I don't know," he said. He shrugged. "Somewhere in the middle. The Neutral Zone."  
  
"Oh." Warren nodded slowly. To his relief it didn't send bolts of pain through his skull. "Where are we going?"  
  
"New York," said Andrew promptly. He was smiling a little. "I've always wanted to go to New York."  
  
"Yeah?" said Warren. His voice was still weak. "Me too, I guess."  
  
Andrew smiled again. Warren tried it. It seemed to work. Then he kept eating.  
  
"The slayer will never find us," said Andrew quietly and confidently.  
  
"Nah," agreed Warren.  
  
"We'll blend in, we'll find a place to live, and no one will ever know we used to be supervillains." Andrew had nearly finished whatever he was drinking. His straw made an irritating sound in the silence.  
  
"No one," said Warren quietly. Like anyone would ever care. He looked in the back.  
  
There she was. There was his baby. In pieces of course, but still perfectly operable once he put her together again. In New York, if they ever got there. He tried to imagine rebuilding his sprawling mess of chips and wires and monitors in some nice place in New York.  
  
Yeah. That could work.  
  
Andrew frowned, turning the key in the ignition, and carefully steered back onto the road. He stopped at the exit to the car park even though there wasn't another set of headlights for miles in either direction. He took a last, sullen slurp of orange.  
  
In the flickering lair, Andrew leaned over him on the floor and told him, holding a cold, wet towel to his nose, that Jonathan had gone to Buffy. Had told her everything, about Katrina, about the orbs, about the planned heist.  
  
"Why?" croaked Warren through the thickly padded towel.  
  
"When you pushed him through the demon barrier and said you didn't know if it would work?" said Andrew. Warren remembered saying that. He remembered feeling high. "He didn't like that much." Andrew looked apologetic, his voice hushed and fast.  
  
Warren pushed the towel away.  
  
"We gotta leave," he said, trying to get up. He was dizzy. Andrew held his arms as he staggered to his feet. "I can't fight her like this. Is she coming? Is Buffy coming?"  
  
Andrew just nodded, the bloody cloth still in his hands.  
  
"We have to take the computer," said Warren.  
  
"No, there isn't time! Come on, Warren, we have to go!" Andrew sounded panicky.  
  
Warren put his face in Andrew's, and a hand on his bony shoulder. He must have looked like hell. Andrew nearly winced.  
  
"We're taking her," he said quietly, his voice grating in his throat.  
  
They found a car on the street and piled the parts in, carefully padded on the bean bag. Andrew threw in some t-shirts. Warren took the money. They saw Buffy arrive in the rear view mirror as they pulled away.  
  
"You know," said Warren in a half-whisper, holding a hand to his nose and looking behind. "She could really do with a car." His hand was covered in blood again. Andrew passed him the towel.  
  
Now it was like they were driving in a black void, the road appearing when the headlights hit it. Warren's headache hadn't come full on yet, it was still just a dullish throb over his cranium and twisted tension across the back of his neck. But he hadn't had a nosebleed since they left… where was it? Maybe Santa Fe? Had they been driving that long? Where were they?  
  
Didn't matter.  
  
No way his nose would bleed in New York.  
  
He should have bought painkillers in the Circle K. They did nothing, but they made him feel psychosomatically better. The sound of the road was blurring into the throb in his head. He closed his eyes. It didn't help.  
  
"When we get to New York, I'm taking you to a doctor." Andrew glanced at him, daring, now, to take his eyes off the road for seconds at a time.  
  
Warren shook his head, his eyes still closed.  
  
"I'll be fine," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He cleared his throat. "I just need to chill out." He held a hand to his right temple and rubbed it a little. That never helped the pain, but at least it was something else to feel.  
  
Andrew said nothing.  
  
The headaches had begun after he killed Katrina. He didn't know if it was related. Two days after that, in those clear, crystalline days when he seemed to live on the euphoria of getting away with murder and nothing else, he had made a breakthrough with his neural net. The math was so close, he was so close to knowing the formula, to seeing the pattern. He knew that soon, any day, he would predict with perfect accuracy how the markets would close, at least a day in advance.  
  
Warren was doing it. Warren was cracking the New York Stock Exchange.  
  
And Warren was in pain, the heel of his hand to the side of his head, and suddenly there was no crystal anymore, just a buzzing and whining in his brain and he couldn't concentrate. But he had to. So he sat in front of the ticker till the buzzing went away, and he planned the heist with Andrew and Jonathan, and he worked all night on his net. The painkillers always got him to somewhere around three or four in the morning and then he would have to lie down till the pain ebbed a little in his head.  
  
Then he'd start again.  
  
And then he had it. He had it, then he woke up and found Andrew over him with a bloodstained towel.  
  
And now he had to wait till they got to New York to boot her up again.  
  
It sometimes seemed like too much, till he remembered the payoff. He didn't want the headaches and the nosebleeds and the blackouts, and he wished they would go away, and they would, in New York, with Andrew and his baby booted up and ready to make him some serious money. Then his head would be fine, it would have that feeling he dimly remembered, the lightness after a headache went away, the silence after hours of buzzing and whining. He was really looking forward to that silence.  
  
And Andrew was taking him there. He had always liked Andrew best.  
  
Andrew was singing some song to himself. Some stupid song on the radio.  
  
A few miles down the black road, Warren finally fell asleep.  



	2. Waking Up in New York

Title: Waking Up in New York  
Author: Anna  
Pairing: Warren/Andrew  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: I think by now they can belong to me, right? (Kidding.)  
Summary: Sequel to _The Neutral Zone_. Warren and Andrew have reached New York.  
Notes: I was going for happy. I'm in a happy Wandrew place. ^_^  
Feedback: If you would be so good. Thank you.  
  
  
He slept a lot in New York, when they got there. Andrew had paid in cash for a nice place in the Village and had dragged him up the stairs, slowly and laboriously, all Warren's weight on his narrow frame, and had put him in a bed. It was large and comfortable with green cotton sheets and he had been there for some time now. He liked waking up and finding himself there. It still sometimes came as a surprise.  
  
He could hear Andrew humming and cooking something in the kitchen. He must have slept all day again. He found it hard to eat, but Andrew cooked anyway. The light on the pale ceiling was soothing, throwing the shadows of the sash windows in skewed trapezoids into the corner and along the wall. There wasn't much noise from the streets below, just the occasional hum of New York traffic and now and then some mother shouting to her sons in a language Warren couldn't always recognise.  
  
His computer remained in pieces on the floor in the living room. When the bedroom door was open he could see some of the parts piled carefully against the wall. He would build her again when he had the strength. It was strange, he thought, that he still used the feminine pronoun for all those bits of circuitry and wiring. Maybe it was left over from his April days. Those times seemed so far away. Sunnydale seemed so far away. It was with relief that he thought of that suffocating town the other side of the country, the other side of a vast landmass. Those days were over and he was far away.  
  
He still felt pain in his head but it was lessening every day. His nose hadn't bled since that one time in Virginia, and even that was an anomaly. Before that it was New Mexico. He had no idea how long ago that was. The whole trip was a blur.  
  
Sometimes he still woke up feeling homicidal, a sharp crack of pain dancing like electricity in his skull, and he would open his eyes in the dark reaching for Andrew to share the agony. Maybe, he thought, he could transfer it into another body and it would go away. But then, as his fingers slid over soft skin, he would find himself calming somewhat, and he pulled Andrew towards him for another reason. Andrew fitted into the curve of his body so neatly. It would be a shame to break him.  
  
Sometimes they talked in the early morning before Andrew made breakfast.  
  
"I wonder where Tucker is?" Andrew would shift restlessly in his arms.  
  
"Probably at school," Warren would say, his eyes still closed and his head resting against Andrew's shoulder blade.  
  
"Maybe some day it would be safe to go see him." Andrew would wriggle around at this point, turning to face Warren, so their foreheads rested together.  
  
"Maybe some day," Warren would mumble, pulling Andrew closer. Andrew's hips were bony but Warren didn't mind.  
  
"And I wonder where Jonathan is?" He was always fidgety when he mentioned Jonathan, and Warren would rub soothing fingers over his back.  
  
"Probably hoping he can hang out with the slayer now," Warren would reply. Then he'd sigh, glad that saying that word, slayer, no longer meant he had to kick his tired brain into action.  
  
"Do you think he does? I mean, do you think he, like, hangs at her house?" Andrew's voice always became a touch petulant at this point.  
  
"I don't know, Andrew," Warren would say, his eyes opening at last. Running his hand through Andrew's hair always stopped the fidgeting, like a programmed response to Warren's fingertips.  
  
"Because that's kind of like the Green Goblin hanging out with Spiderman." Andrew's hands would rest curled up against Warren's chest.  
  
"No, it really isn't, Andrew." Warren would smile then. And sometimes, at this point, he'd lean closer and kiss Andrew softly, because his naivety was too much to take, and sometimes he wouldn't, he'd just close his eyes again and Andrew would stop talking and they'd fall back asleep. Either way, the questions eventually ran out and Andrew would stop worrying for another day.  
  
Warren's mind was still fuzzy, but sometimes he realised how much he meant to this other human being and the responsibility he felt was almost too much, almost enough to make him get up and leave Andrew here alone, because Warren had never looked out for anyone but Warren.  
  
Now Andrew was looking out for Warren, too, and it felt out of joint to be so dependant and yet depended upon. He could not figure it out. He found it frustrating.  
  
He might leave. But not yet. Not till he got his strength back.  
  
The sun shone straight into the bedroom in the evening. A gap in the buildings opposite meant that every day, after five o'clock this time of year, the late sunlight filled the room with gentle yellow, and tiny flaws in the glass of the windows refracted spectra of light onto the walls in miniature rainbows. Warren counted the colours in each one. Today the smell of cooking made him hungry and that was new. Maybe he was getting better.  
  
Maybe he could rebuild her soon, his neural net waiting to make him all that money on the Stock Exchange. Or maybe he'd leave when Andrew was out shopping, taking his baby with him, and he'd run away from everything. Then there would be nothing of Sunnydale left, nothing of the past year.  
  
Maybe.  
  
He slowly pushed himself up in bed, sitting back against the green pillows, and waited for Andrew to call him into the kitchen to eat. It was good to get out of bed sometimes. He pulled on his t-shirt. Star Trek was on at six.  



	3. Exposure

Title: Exposure (Part 3 of the New York series)  
Author: Anna  
Pairing: Warren/Andrew  
Rating: R, to be safe.  
Distribution: DWTS, if they want it, and my sites. Anyone else, please let me know.   
Feedback: If you would be so good. Constructive criticism welcome.  
Disclaimer: They're mine. Okay, ow, they're not.  
Summary: Sequel to _The Neutral Zone_ and _Waking Up in New York_.  
Notes: Huge thank yous to And and Christie for the betas and encouragement. You guys rock. Thanks also to everyone who's fbed.  
  


  
If you got to know him, years from now, and asked him why he came back that one time, he probably wouldn't be able to tell you. He would probably look at you strangely and change the subject, because it wasn't something he had ever talked about, not even when he came home that night and found Andrew waiting, eerily still, in the moonlit apartment.  
  
It was remarkably quiet. Few tears, no raised voices. Warren left his suitcase down, carefully, and walked towards the bedroom, as if he had come back from shopping, and after a minute Andrew followed him, and then they collapsed together onto the floor by the bed, Warren's arms wrapped tightly around Andrew and his forehead contracted with a feeling he did not want to analyse.  
  
Warren was never big on introspection and Andrew hated scenes of recrimination, so they never mentioned it again. They both knew Warren had come back. It was enough.  
  
It was an ordinary day when he decided to leave. They had spent about an hour in a used bookstore a few blocks from their building, and then bought two cappuccinos on the way to Andrew's favourite comic store. They had been walking in comfortable silence for a few minutes when Warren realised that he was using his left hand to drink, and he was doing so because his right hand were entangled in Andrew's left. Palm to palm, with their fingers relaxed around each other, Andrew's hand tucked behind his. Andrew seemed entirely unfazed. Was this the first time they had held hands? He couldn't be sure. His head was still fuzzy, sometimes, and when it hurt his first instinct was still to reach for Andrew. But it wasn't hurting now. That wasn't the reason this time.  
  
He knew he had begun to act oddly by the time they reached the comic store. He was nervous, jumpy. Andrew tried to surreptitiously glance his way now and again but Andrew wasn't very good at surreptitious. It made Warren even more jumpy. He flicked aimlessly through a few comics and put them back on the shelf. He looked with extreme disinterest at the posters. He sighed in annoyance, finishing his cold cappuccino.  
  
"Hey, Andrew?" he said. He kept his voice quiet. He figured he sounded normal.  
  
"Yeah?" Andrew was just picking up the new Spiderman.  
  
"I'm going back to the apartment, okay? I'll see you there."  
  
"Sure," said Andrew. Warren just nodded and, his right hand in his jeans pocket, headed to the door.  
  
"Hey, Warren?" said Andrew behind him. He stopped and turned.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You okay?" said Andrew. Warren knew he meant his head. He shrugged.  
  
"Yeah," he said. He said it the way he always said it when he felt a headache creeping up from the base of his neck.  
  
"I'll be home soon, okay?" said Andrew. Warren nodded. He realised he wanted to smile, so he stopped himself.  
  
"I'll see you there." He turned and walked out the open doorway. The street was bright and hot after the gloom inside.  
  
  
  
He walked quickly back to the apartment. It wasn't far, but he felt tired when he got there. Maybe he wasn't back to full strength. Maybe he always would have felt tired after walking fast for seven blocks. He couldn't remember. He remembered what panic felt like, and this was it. He pushed it down and began to take apart the computer. He put his neural net, part by delicate part, into a hard suitcase, padded with t-shirts and pants and enough cash to get him somewhere.  
  
It was all he needed. He didn't stop to write a note. He didn't look back and say goodbye. He didn't think about Andrew.  
  
He just hailed a cab and headed to the airport.  
  
His fingers tapped some crazy rhythm on his knee when the cab got stuck in traffic. He wasn't sure why. He had no plane to be late for. He didn't know where he would go. One thing was certain, though. He would go there alone. He was best alone.  
  
He didn't imagine Andrew coming home and finding the apartment empty. Finding the computer gone. Knowing, when he saw that, that Warren was gone. And he didn't imagine Andrew knowing why.  
  
The airport was full of people. Evening in August was a busy time. He was knocked in the arm by some fat guy with a camera strung around his neck. Watch it, buddy, he thought. You don't know who you're dealing with. A rabbi cut in front of him trailing a line of children. The departures board was full of names, places, exotic sounding cities he'd love to go with his money. Bangkok, that could be fun. Buenos Aires. Or maybe Europe, somewhere in the old world. Prague or Rome. Or maybe Geneva. Or Athens.  
  
He could go anywhere. It was exhilarating. It was complete freedom, something he'd always wanted.  
  
So he thought maybe he'd just sit down, here by the board, to think for a while and make up his mind where to go. There were so many people. It was a big decision. He realised he had forgotten his painkillers.  
  
  
  
Airports are cold at night, no matter the time of year. A bunch of Sikh baggage handlers walked by in a straggling group. Must be the end of the shift. He was hungry. He didn't feel like dragging his suitcase to the restaurant. It was dark outside and the big glass windows sucked away any heat left in the building. He wished he had thought to bring a jacket. The flickering green neon made him slightly ill.  
  
He just still hadn't made up his mind where to go. That was the problem. Maybe he'd lie down for a little while. Not that he'd sleep in this cold. At least it was quieter now.  
  
  
  
It must have been nearly six when some guy woke him up. Some old guy in a suit, holding a bunch of keys. Looked at him funny. Watch it, grandpa. The windows were the watery yellow of early sun.  
  
"What you doin' lyin' here, boy?" Warren could see sick, rheumy eyes behind thick glasses. "Maybe you inna wrong place, huh? You been here all night."  
  
Please.  
  
"You wanna go inna gate? Where you goin'?"  
  
Leave me here.  
  
Warren felt the tension in his neck. He pushed himself up and rolled his head. Never helped.  
  
"You got any Tylenol?" he mumbled, rubbing an eye.  
  
"Eh." The old guy shook his head and sighed. Warren didn't know if he'd heard or not. Didn't matter. Tylenol were never any use anyway. The man walked away, keys jangling and trailing the smell of old nicotine, looking back once with a vague air of disapproval. Warren stared at him, daring him to look back again, till he turned a corner out of sight.  
  
  
  
He dragged the suitcase to some fast food place on the restaurant level. It was heavy. The floor smelled of disinfectant. He ordered coffee, which came in a paper cup. Airport coffee always sucked. And the stupid plastic things for stirring, he hated those. Warren sat at a formica-topped table beside a smaller departures board and poured in three sugars. He rubbed his neck. Make it four.  
  
London, maybe. At least they spoke English there. But then he imagined grey rain and decided against. Maybe Australia? No. Singapore? Now that had potential. He mentally shortlisted it. Tokyo? No. Not with the Japanese economy the way it was.  
  
He had to find somewhere he could build his computer again. He hadn't been able to get it to work in New York. He thought he put her back together perfectly, but there must have been some mistakes. Maybe in the rush to leave Sunnydale, he forgot something. Maybe something was knocked out of place. The problem was that he hadn't had time to work on it, not really. He'd started to tinker a bit once he was strong enough to get up and sit around in the living room for any kind of extended period, but he'd never given it the time and attention it needed. Not with Andrew serving up long, lazy breakfasts in bed, and then taking him out to the bookstore and Pottery Barn. Not with taking Andrew to the movies to see whatever sci-fi flick he wanted to see, and then a late dinner with red wine discussing the flaws and inconsistencies, and then always ending up hot and tangled together in bed. No one could concentrate on an extremely complex neural net with all that distraction.  
  
So he had to get away, it was that simple. Maybe Paris? Paris could be nice. Put that on the shortlist, too.  
  
  
  
The restaurant got crowded at lunchtime. He had to move his suitcase out of the way of some Italian children running around the tables, high on artificial additives. Have fun going long haul with hyperactive kids, he thought. That rules out Rome, then. Madrid or Barcelona? He didn't really like the thought of Spain. Berlin? Ugh, Germany, no thank you. Full of Germans. And too cold. Somewhere like Tripoli, though obviously not Tripoli. Tunis? Tunis could be nice. Sand, sea. Near the real Tatouine, too. They could visit the Skywalker place.  
  
He drained his fourth cup of cold, venomous coffee.  
  
Forget fucking Tunis. Forget all of north Africa. Forget all of fucking Europe, too.  
  
He stood up. He had to find the toilets. Too much coffee. He wished those kids would shut up.  
  
  
  
In the bookshop he flicked through travel guides. They were full of little maps and historical facts he found entirely boring. After a while he stopped reading and just looked at the pictures. He made a deal in his head. A couple more hours thinking and looking through the books, and he'd go to the place that he liked best. Simple.  
  
He kept flicking.  
  
  
  
The automatic doors opened with the sound of a turbo lift and he hated that he thought that, so he walked out quickly and found a cab.  
  
"Hot enough for ya?" said the cab driver. The sun was setting the other side of the airport but the concrete still baked the air and it smelled of tar.  
  
Get a line, he thought. He didn't say it, just gave an address. He said it without thinking. Now was not the time for introspection. And the cab got stuck in traffic, and he thought, of course we're stuck in traffic, because that's what happens to cabs outside every airport in the world, so it makes no fucking difference at all.  
  
That I'm still in New York.  
  
  
  
The elevator was still broken so he climbed the stairs and tried not to make too much noise with his suitcase. When he got to the door he thought for a moment that he had forgotten his keys in his rush yesterday afternoon – was it only yesterday afternoon? – but there they were in his pocket, hidden under some candy wrappers and a plastic thing for stirring coffee.  
  
And he saw Andrew sitting at the table in the dark, and he dropped his suitcase and passed by, through the living room and into the bedroom and waited there, holding his head and walking erratically to and fro, and he knew Andrew would follow. Then it was so good to have his arms filled with Andrew again, even a half-spitting, half-sobbing Andrew, an Andrew who buried his head in the hollow under Warren's jaw trying not to show how lonely he had been and how hurt, and failing, because Warren knew anyway. Warren couldn't remember saying sorry but he must have, in all those nothings he whispered over and over into Andrew's ear, he must have because he heard it in his head. And finally, when Andrew stopped sobbing, Warren held his face and kissed him and he had never felt such deliquescence. He had never melted before.  
  
Nor had the bed been so expansive and, after a while, their haste made way for lazy lovemaking, their mouths finding each other again in the darkness, relearning planes and curves of skin. Too soon, the morning began to seep through the blinds and they found themselves curled up in each other, wrapped in sheets and trapped heat. Warren's eyes were black and Andrew's uncannily knowing and Warren almost hid under his liquid blue stare, but then remembered that he had just tried that, and it didn't work out.  
  
Maybe, he thought, maybe sometimes it was worth risking exposure. Maybe just this once.  
  
He was still debating it in his head when he fell asleep.


	4. Scheduled Programming

Title: Scheduled Programming  
Author: Anna  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Warren/Andrew  
Distribution: Usual sites, comms, lists. Anyone else, please ask.  
Feedback: Delighted to receive. Constructive welcome.  
Disclaimer: I want them, but they're not mine. The apartment is, though.  
Note 1: Part 4 of the New York Series.  
Note 2: Thanks to And and Christie for the prereads.

It was raining hard against the windows on the day he gave up. It was relentless, the rain, and below on the streets umbrellas scurried by, slick and shiny in the grey. He had the desk lamp on, focused on her circuitry and wiring, and, in the middle of a particularly intricate piece of soldering, he sat back and thought, fuck it. I don't need this. There are other ways.

"Andrew?" he called. Andrew was watching _Attack of the Clones_ on his laptop on the coffee table. He had found some ripped version somewhere and downloaded it.

"This movie is so flawed," he replied. Warren couldn't see his face but he could hear the frown.

"Andrew," he said again.

"It doesn't matter how often you watch it, it's still so flawed." Andrew sighed deeply and sadly.

"Andrew," said Warren a third time. He said it with patience. It was a tone he was still unused to in his own voice.

"Yeah?" said Andrew distractedly.

"How much money do we have? You know, in the bank, investments, everything?"

Andrew shrugged, his eyes not leaving the screen.

"I thought you knew," he said. "I hate the sappy love scenes. They're so boring."

"And you usually like those," said Warren. 

"Hey, that was only one RomCom, okay?" Andrew eventually tore his eyes from the screen. He was still frowning defensively when he turned around. "And I happen to think Meg Ryan is a very talented and beautiful actress."

Warren laughed, but not unkindly.

"I thought you were gonna leave me for Hugh Jackman." He took off his orange glasses.

"Only if he has claws," said Andrew noncommittally, returning to the screen. "So how much money do we have? And why are you asking?"

"Oh, no reason," said Warren. "Just wondering."

Millions, he thought. Millions left over from the bank job and subsequent investments. And they lived pretty modestly. It wasn't like they wanted some big swanky place out on Long Island or a penthouse on the Upper East Side. The Village suited them fine, and he had grown accustomed to this apartment. It was nothing special, just a regular Village apartment, but it was spacious, and it was theirs, and while he had been in bed all those months Andrew had decorated it with real taste. The couch was burnt orange, and the coffee table was a dark mahogany. It looked old and smelled of funiture polish. Andrew must have picked it up in some antiques place. Warren had never bothered to ask. The armchairs were big and soft and a warm cream colour. He never sat on an armchair, he was afraid of spilling coffee on the upholstery. Andrew would be mad.

There was a standard lamp, very stylish with a Japanese paper shade, in the corner, and matching reading lamps beside the couch and on his own desk. Bookshelves lined the wall behind the couch almost completely, and were already packed with their purchases in the used book store just a block away, and Andrew's ever-expanding comic collection. Warren had once mentioned the possibility of boxing up some of the older comics and putting them in the storage closet by the kitchen, but Andrew had simply mooted the idea with a look and Warren hadn't suggested it again. He didn't mind flicking through Spiderman when the mood took him, so he guessed it was alright for now.

Hawking and Asimov shared the shelves with Neal Stephenson, the complete works of Tolkien, _Arcadia_ in a soft leather binding, and folders full of papers, mostly on quantum theory, that Warren had downloaded and printed, from _The Implications of Quantum in AI Development_ to _Schroedinger and the Future of Quantum Processing_. The flaws in some of even the most highly respected academic papers amused him, and now and then he toyed with the idea of writing a paper of his own and popping a few aneurysms in the world of quantum dynamics. He imagined it with relish: the initial disbelief, then the grudging admittance that this newbie's theories seemed indeed to be correct, then the lecture tours, then the pop-science hardback with glossy picture spread, followed by book tours and signings and interesting people and places and five star hotels, all expenses paid. Sub-atomic particles spinning round him like stars and flashbulbs, and black-rimmed glasses like a mark of rank as he expounded ground-breaking theory after theory. Chaos in the waves of thick applause.

He sighed at the reverie and left his desk, joining Andrew on the couch. Yoda flashed his light sabre around on screen like a determined gremlin with a new toy. It was in poor taste, Warren thought, to make an old Jedi leap about in so undignified a manner.

Andrew leaned back into his arms, his eyes still on the screen, a look of morbid fascination on his open face.

"Ugh," he said.

"I hear ya," replied Warren. He ran comforting fingertips through Andrew's hair.

The rain continued to plaster the windows with thick water. The evening grew darker and darker, until not even the wet pavement below reflected streetlights up through the downpour.

"Andrew?" he said drowsily into Andrew's hair that night. They were still on the couch, Andrew lying back against Warren and engrossed in _I, Robot_, which Warren had suggested he read.

"You didn't programme her with the robot rules, though," said Andrew, apropos of nothing apparent to Warren.

"What?"

"April. You would have let her harm humans."

"Oh, well yeah. I guess I didn't think that through." Warren pulled Andrew closer. "And to return to scheduled programming, I repeat, Andrew?"

"Sorry. Yes, Warren?" Andrew put the book down, keeping it open with a thumb.

"Do you think…" Warren put his arms around Andrew's waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. "Do you think Buffy still cares, you know, about catching us?"

Andrew shut his book, marking the page carefully. 

"We were, like, her archnemeses. Which, by the way, is how you say that."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Andrew shifted round in Warren's arms. "Why are you asking about the Slayer?"

Warren shrugged.

"I was just thinking –"

"You weren't thinking of going back there, were you? Back to Sunnydale? Because I don't wanna go, Warren. I like it here. The comic store is, like, way better. You know?"

"Okay, okay, it's okay. I wasn't thinking of going back there." Warren kissed Andrew's cheek. "Not permanently, anyway," he added.

"You want to go back there on, like, vacation? No one goes to Sunnydale on vacation." Andrew laughed nervously. "Apart from those Goth guys but I never really liked them very much. Though their coats were cool."

"Not on vacation either," said Warren gently. "I was just kind of wondering, that's all."

Andrew looked at him intently, the way he did sometimes when he stopped talking. It was quiet in here, enclosed in the gentle sibilance of rain.

"It would be kind of neat to see what Jonathan's doing," he conceded, after a while.

"Hoping the Slayer lets him hang out at her house?" said Warren, a little caustically. Talk of Jonathan still made him uncomfortable.

"Maybe she does. Maybe he's in her gang now."

Warren shook his head, something cynical around his mouth.

"Maybe some day he'll have the guts to be alone." He laughed a little, before looking into Andrew's bruising eyes. Then he shook his head. "Forget it," he said wearily. "Forget Sunnydale. Forget I mentioned it."

He lay back against the burnt orange couch, bringing Andrew with him like some kind of comforter, his unsettling eyes closed and tired again. The Japanese light in the corner softened the shadows on his face, and Andrew watched him for a moment, before turning and allowing himself to relax back against Warren's comfortable body. He left his book closed and stared, maybe unseeing, maybe not, at Warren's cluttered desk.

"I can hear you thinking," said Warren, after a while.

"No you can't," replied Andrew.

"I can. I'm not finishing her. She won't work." Warren's eyes were still closed, and he still held Andrew against him.

"Why do you always call it a her?"

"I don't know. Left over from April, I guess," said Warren.

"You're not finishing it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Warren paused and opened his eyes.

"I've got other plans now," he said eventually.

"Other plans?" repeated Andrew.

"Yeah."

"What other plans? Something to do with Sunnydale? With Buffy?" Andrew's voice had taken on an edge, like the one he used when Warren spilled beer on the carpet one night. "We can't go back there, Warren. You'll get headaches again."

"No, nothing like that. Real plans. I said forget Sunnydale. Forget it, okay? Just come here."

Sometimes kissing was the only way to stop Andrew talking. And Warren didn't want to talk about his nebulous dreams just yet.

And he liked the kissing. And he liked the bedroom. And he liked Andrew.

And he liked the new pictures in his head, and he thought, first step: clear that junk off his desk first thing tomorrow. Forget Sunnydale. It was good advice.

It was not a question, he told himself later, of what he deserved. Staring in the bathroom mirror in the thick gloom of the night, the solitary neon light over the medicine cabinet throwing its sickly luminescence onto his already pale skin, he could see the scars still, where she had scratched at him. Faint they were now, of course, so long after the fact, but there they were, visible to anyone who could come close enough to see. He wondered if Andrew ever saw them and remembered that night in the lair when he watched him kill Katrina. If Andrew thought of it, he hid it well. Perhaps he had made himself forget.

Life didn't work that way, he was sure of it. Life wasn't a case of this for that, balancing the scales. And who would believe it anyway, some crazy girl from California saying he killed a suicide? No one. No one would believe Buffy Summers over Warren Mears, if he were to write that paper, if he were to publish that book. Maybe even give a guest lecture in UC Sunnydale. She had no proof. She had nothing on him.

"Warren?" Andrew knocked tentatively on the door, his voice sleepy and muffled. "Warren, you okay?"

His head still twinged, occasionally, and this was one of those times. It was nothing to what it had been just a few months before, or a few months before that. These were like contractions of the brain, sudden spasms of pain that spread out just under his cranium then faded away, only to pulse in some other part of his head and fade away again. But these excuses for headaches he could take with barely a grimace.

"Yeah, Andrew, I'm fine," he said. He turned on the cold tap and splashed water over his face.

"You sure?" Andrew spoke through a yawn, somewhat mollified. "Come back to bed."

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute," said Warren through his hand. He looked back into his own eyes in the mirror. He could always see the white all the way round his black irises. It gave him a manic look, he thought, not entirely dissatisfied with his reflection, dark though the circles under his eye sockets were in this light. They really should change the bulb in here to something with a warmer tone. It could do wonders for his self-esteem.

It was still raining as he lay in bed, wrapped in Andrew's favourite green duvet. Andrew lay beside him, deep in dreamless sleep. He wished he could sleep like that. He had been able to, when they arrived in New York first. No more. His mind had begun to tick again, and tock, and new pictures formed on the ceiling as he stared at the shadows of raindrops.

Amorphous fears remained, though, playing on his mind at this bleak and lonely hour.

Katrina was dead, Buffy was far away, and all he had left of Sunnydale was a sleeping boy who turned, as he watched, and held him.

It wasn't a question of what he deserved. It never was.

It was a question of what he wanted. He wanted Andrew. Check. He had Andrew.

But he still wanted so much more.  



	5. The Day Before Tomorrow

Title: The Day Before Tomorrow (NY Series part 5, final part)  
Author: Anna  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Warren/Andrew  
Summary: Coffee in the city  
Feedback: yes please  
Disclaimer: Not mine.  
Notes: Thanks to FabricatedVoice and Jenn for the betas. Especially Fab, because she did it twice.

Also thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed this little fic. Sorry for the incredibly long delay between chapters. I hope this ending is satisfactory.

They sat at a small round table in the corner of a coffee place they liked just off Broadway. It had a faint faux-aged air about it, but neither of them minded. The smell of mocha was too enticing and the leather couches too comfortable to allow the antiqued copper coffee bar bother them.

"You do know we live in, like, the gayest part of the city, right?" said Warren, unwrapping the chocolate that came with the cappuccino.

"No, that's Chelsea," replied Andrew.

"Okay, the second gayest."

"Second gayest," Andrew conceded, nodding. "Yeah, I know." He moodily flicked his sugar packet.

"Did you do that on purpose?"

"Do what?"

Warren sighed in exasperation.

"Move us into the second gayest part of the city, dumbass. When I was sick."

"Oh!" said Andrew. "No." He shook his head vehemently. "No, I didn't. I just, you know, found it."

"Uh huh," said Warren. He covered up a smile with his oversized cappuccino cup. Lately he found it harder and harder not to cave immediately and bite that defensively pouting lower lip. "So you're just, what, drawn to the gayness? Subconsciously?"

Andrew shrugged and stirred slowly. The chocolate powder was already melting into the foam.

"I don't know." He licked his spoon thoughtfully. "I was drawn to you," he added, a tentative twinkle in his eye.

Warren put down his cup and laughed quietly.

"Touché," he said. "I guess you were."

Andrew smiled happily and sipped his coffee. Conversation bubbled and hummed around them. Privacy was a given in the midst of so many people.

"You like it here, Andrew?"

"Oh, yeah," said Andrew. "Totally. New York is so much cooler than Sunnydale."

"Yeah, it is," replied Warren. "You know…" He frowned a little and looked intently at the table top, his fingertip tracing a dark vein in the marble veneer. "You know, sometimes I can't really remember Sunnydale too clearly." It was a vague statement, he knew, but he found that clarity stuck in his throat.

"Well," said Andrew. "You were sick."

"Yeah, I was," agreed Warren. "I forget little things." He looked up, half smiling, faintly sad.

"Is your head totally better now?" Andrew looked concerned. Just a tiny muscular contraction between the eyes and Warren felt suddenly and almost overwhelmingly grateful.

"It's been okay lately," he said, shrugging. "Andrew?"

"Yeah?" said Andrew.

"When did we, you know…" He waved his hand vaguely between them. "When did we hook up?"

"You don't remember that?" Andrew didn't look hurt, he looked wary. Too many games played, thought Warren.

"No. I've been trying. When was it?" He hated having to ask. "What happened?"

Andrew considered him for a moment, a speculative look in his eyes that Warren felt was some kind of test or judgment, as if maybe he was not worthy of secrets. It unnerved him slightly. Dynamics shifted in that moment like a magnetic field flipping and suddenly compasses pointed the other way.

The metaphor seemed apt.

"You kissed me," said Andrew at last. "You were designing the cerebral dampener, and Jonathan was out somewhere. And you kissed me, and told me it was secret, and then you went back to your diagrams. That was the first time."

"I kissed you?" He thought he'd remember that. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Andrew.

"Huh," said Warren pensively. He drank some more cappuccino. "I remember the first time we had sex," he said.

Andrew nodded. "The night after…"

"Katrina," said Warren.

"Yeah," said Andrew, quietly. He looked away, down, at anything but Warren.

"It's all right, Andrew." Warren watched him. "I was sick, okay? It wasn't really me."

"Oh, I know," said Andrew, looking back at Warren now and smiling without input from his eyes. "You were sick."

"Yeah." Warren nodded, reassuringly. "That's all over. Sunnydale's so over."

"Right. We live here now." Andrew had calmed a little, thought Warren. He knew he would.

"Yeah. In the second gayest part of New York." Warren smiled, playful now.

"Which I didn't do on purpose," said Andrew, holding up an admonishing finger.

"I know. You're subconsciously drawn to gay things like this coffee bar and Pottery Barn."

"And like you." Andrew grinned.

"Shut up," retorted Warren.

"You should make boy robots. We could open a store." Andrew giggled into his coffee mug.

"Oh my God, shut up," said Warren. He sipped the end of his cappuccino. It was getting cool now and sweet with partially dissolved sugar. He never stirred the sugar properly. He hated messing up the foam.

"I would hate to meet someone from Sunnydale here," said Andrew. His laughter had died. He looked pensive now.

"The Slayer's forgotten us, Andrew," replied Warren. "You don't have to worry that she'll come after us."

"Not even that," said Andrew. "I mean, it's like, we're the spin-off, and Sunnydale is the original series, but you can't have crossovers because we're, like, alternative universe, and so if they turned up here they'd have to be different, but they wouldn't be. Not like us."

"You think we're different here?"

"Yeah," said Andrew emphatically. "You're not sick, and we're not supervillains, and Jonathan's not here. Totally AU."

"I guess," said Warren. Andrew missed Jonathan. Maybe it was jealousy that Warren felt. He wasn't sure.

"But you can have AU crossovers, kind of like Redemption, when Captain Picard meets Tasha Yar's Romulan daughter, and that happened because of Yesterday's Enterprise, which was AU." Andrew looked worried.

"Andrew, relax. Just relax. Okay?" Warren felt some distance from relaxed. "Take it easy. We're not gonna crossover with anyone from Sunnydale." The thought made his stomach tighten. Caffeine didn't help.

"It might make you sick again." Andrew looked so anxious. Warren was touched.

"It might."

"Then we'd have to move again," said Andrew.

"Not gonna happen, Andrew, okay? It's you and me, and we're staying here." He could hear the conviction in his own voice. "Nothing will change that."

The expression on Andrew's face was one that Warren had come to know. It remained almost blank, and yet Warren could see inside. He knew what Andrew was thinking, how he was feeling, and the thought that he knew Andrew so well made Warren feel something unfamiliar and pleasant. Now was one of those times. Andrew was thinking, Warren will protect me. He always does.

And Warren saw that Andrew was slightly thrilled, and slightly afraid, and it reminded him of the time they got away with murder.

Cappuccino always tasted sickly at the bottom of the cup. Warren knew he put in too much sugar, and always decided that next time he'd put in less and stir it properly, but he never did. He liked to watch the chocolate powder melt, and he hated disturbing it with the spoon. So he knew next time it would be the same, and next time he'd get to the end and his mouth would feel sticky and dry, as it did now. As it always did. As it would every time.

"Okay," said Andrew, finally. He nodded slowly. "Good."

"Yeah," said Warren. He drained his cup and winced at the taste.

"What if it was Jonathan? That we met?"

Warren sighed. "We're not gonna meet anyone, Andrew, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay." Warren watched Andrew drink the last of his coffee. Jonathan was always on Andrew's mind. Sometimes they'd be in the comic book store and he'd mention how much Jonathan would like some new storyline. Sometimes they'd be shopping for clothes in one of the places near the park and Andrew would hold up a tiny t-shirt and make some joke about Jonathan. Warren always laughed, but he'd rather forget Jonathan. He wished Andrew would forget Jonathan. In case, one day, walking down the street, it was Jonathan that they met.

It was good to forget some things. He sighed again, under his breath.

He did wish he could remember that kiss, though.

"Hey," said Warren, reaching out and pressing his fingertips against Andrew's hand. "You done?"

Andrew nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You wanna go do something?"

"Red Dwarf 2 is out on DVD," said Warren, smiling again, tenderly. He knew how to shake Andrew's sadness away.

"Cool," said Andrew. "Let's go to Tower."

"It's a plan." Warren stood up, taking his coat from the back of the chair. "The most complex plan we've had in weeks," he added.

"There was that time we planned to go to Tower, then to the park," said Andrew.

"Oh yeah, that was pretty intricate." Warren led the way out of the crowded, bustling shop, paying on the way. "I kinda miss plans, Andrew," he said quietly when they reached the street.

Andrew buttoned his jacket. "You're getting used to it," said Andrew. "Hey, what are the extras on this DVD?"

"Interviews, outtakes, boring image galleries, the usual."

"Cool," said Andrew, excitedly. He took Warren's hand in his.

The afternoon was crisp and cold. Warren loved the sharp smell of the air on days like this. His palm was warm against Andrew's, his other hand deep in the pocket of his coat. Copper leaves fluttered in the needling breeze and the sky rolled low overhead.

He was getting used to it, the lack of plans, and that worried him. Too long without plans and something would atrophy.

But perhaps he would worry about it tomorrow. That was the one thing he really liked about not having plans. He could be reasonably certain that there would be a tomorrow.


End file.
